


Hideaway

by Sage (the_ruined_earth_sagelord)



Series: Haikyuu!! One Shots [9]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, LIKE SERIOUS ANGST, M/M, Ouch, Past Drug Use, im sorry, just a warning, like there's no resolution im just leaving you suspended in angst, sorrynotsorry, there is no comfort at the end of this, this was inspired by a song that isn't nearly this sad im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ruined_earth_sagelord/pseuds/Sage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Boys seem to like the girls who laugh at anything, the ones who get undressed before the second date."</p><p>Or, the angst between two lovers who haven't seen each other in so long, they've lost their chance to fix what's been damaged</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hideaway

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, this one hurt to write. More notes at the bottom, I don't want to spoil it by adding too much up here.

 

 

Hinata took Kageyama’s hand in his small one. He stood, pulling on Kageyama’s fingers, silently asking him to stand. Kageyama did, and Hinata led him to the back of his apartment, towards his bedroom. His movements had become robotic, and he dragged his feet like he was walking towards his own execution. It was freaking Kageyama out. Hinata’s usually bright eyes were dim, his quick movements were automatic, dull. His entire being was a smoldering, pathetic ember compared to the inferno he’d been during their date at the theater just half an hour ago. It was as if bringing Kageyama upstairs to his apartment had flipped a switch inside Hinata, turning him into a limp sack full of something dark and heavy.

Something like…dread.

“Hinata…”

He turned to Kageyama. They were in his bedroom now. The lights were off, but the room was still cast in a soft, yellow glow from the busy street life of the city outside. A neon green light from some skyscraper flashed on and off through the shade pulled down over the window. On and off. The ceiling fan above creaked slowly around, the little string coiled and unravelling at the end. The whole room was sticky with the summer heat, warm and tight, uncomfortable. A dresser was pushed against the far wall, the bottom drawer open to reveal white and pastel colored underwear tossed casually inside. Glasses and green bottles littered the bedside table, holding down papers with their alcoholic stink. A sock hung over the tarnished metal frame at the end of the small bed in the middle of the room. The bed lounged in the center like a throne, and Hinata crawled onto it, his movements slow and precise, practiced, as he unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it off his small body like a second skin peeling from his bones. He kneeled in the center of his dirty throne, rumpled sheets and tired pillows all around his ankles and knees. He gestured to the mattress.

“Kageyama,” he murmured. His shirt slipped off his collarbone, revealing a slender shoulder, pale-white against the dirty walls behind him. His eyes were languid pools of amber. “Come on. Isn’t this why we’re here?”

Kageyama stared at him. This room was nothing like the rest of Hinata’s apartment, nothing like _Hinata_. This was like an inner sanctum, but defiled—a desolate place full of drink and waste and loneliness. If Hinata was the little god here and this room was his shrine, then it had fallen into disrepair. Kageyama didn’t want to think about himself sitting on that bed, still haunted with the moans of other men, other bodies, warm and angry and hungry. His hands shook, and he bit his nails into his palms.

“Kageyama,” Hinata said again, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Isn’t this what you want from me? Hurry up.”

His voice. It was wrong.

It sounded… _resigned_.

Kageyama looked around the room, his nose wrinkling. “Is it what _you_ want, Hinata?”

A short, hollow laugh. Barely a breath. “I don’t know. No one ever asks me that.” His eyebrows furrowed. “Isn’t this what you’re supposed to do? It’s been two dates. You’re supposed to fuck me now. And then… I dunno. Leave.”

Kageyama’s eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared, and he slowly put his hand on the doorknob. “I see,” he said, his fingers curling around the metal knob. “Is that how all your dates go?”

“Sometimes it only takes the first date.”

Kageyama tasted bile in the back of his throat. “Hinata…”

“Come on, hurry up,” Hinata sighed. He yanked his pants off now, too, sliding out of them with practiced ease, so simple and quick. He kneeled in the middle of his bed, shivering slightly in his tight underwear. His head cocked to one side, eyes staring at Kageyama. “Don’t you want to fuck me? Let’s get it over with.”

Kageyama stared at Hinata. His small body, tightly muscled and well-built, compact and powerful. His abs flexed as he held his core upright, his thighs tightened as he leaned back on his heels. His hair fell soft over his face. He relaxed his arms by his side, but his biceps were still prominent. His smooth skin was like pale marble in the middle of the dirtied bed. A small trail of hairs led somewhere beneath his underwear, and he traced his fingers along the edge of his briefs.

Kageyama took it all in. Then he snorted a soft breath through his nose.

“Get dressed, dumbass,” he whispered into the quiet room. “I don’t want to fuck you.”

Hinata froze. He narrowed his eyes. “Why not? Is this a trick? You’re gonna try to force—”

“ _I’m not gonna force you anything_ ,” Kageyama snarled. He hissed a breath, letting it in and out. The idea, the very _thought_ of forcing Hinata to do something he didn’t want to…

It was disgusting.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” Kageyama said, slower, “because I respect you way too much to pull some shit like that on you. So. Yeah. Put your pants on. We’re getting out of here.”

He turned, sweeping out through the door. He didn’t wait to see if Hinata followed. He stormed through the apartment, marching into the bathroom. He slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. Immediately, he collapsed to the ground, his breath leaving his lungs in a shaky trickle. He slumped against the door, groaning, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. What was he doing? What was he _doing_?

He’d known something was up with Hinata all night. At the theater, Hinata had been fidgeting in his seat, tapping his fingers against the arm rest, bouncing his leg, touching his hair again and again. He was normally active, constantly in motion; but this had been a nervous kind of energy Kageyama had recognized instantly as dread. He felt it all the time when he had to present in front of his fellow college students, standing at the front of the room with everyone’s eyes on him. Hinata had been acting the same way, like he was about to be put on display and could do nothing to stop it.

That dread…it had only worsened once they’d gotten to Hinata’s apartment.

“God, Hinata,” Kageyama whispered into his hands. “What’s been done to you…to make you feel like that around _me_?”

On the other side of the bathroom door, soft shuffling noises came from the bedroom. Hinata was getting dressed. Kageyama could hear a sweater being zipped up, pants pulled on, shoes crammed onto his feet. He was silent on the other side of the door, lost in getting dressed.

Kageyama stood, pressing the knuckles of one fist to the wood of the door. He needed to get out of this apartment, needed to get away from Hinata’s past lovers, past lives. They were too crowded in here, squirming like a wriggling creature turned on its back, legs and arms grasping and dragging and pulling Hinata down—and Kageyama, too. He could smell their stink in the flat, their bodies and sweaty smiles and thin-lipped promises clogging the air. Kageyama hated to think about how many men had filed through here, like strangers passing through a bus station, getting a free ride and then checking out.

_Filthy, disgusting bastards. How dare they. How_ dare _they—_

But Kageyama was no better.

He grabbed the doorknob, unlocking the bathroom and quietly letting himself out. Hinata stood in the middle of the room, the bedroom door closed firmly on the memories inside. The kitchen in the back was dark. A rug of blue and green weaving lounged on the linoleum floor of the living room; the dark wood of the coffee table went well with the rug. Kageyama’s eyes softened. Hinata had always had good taste.

His eyes turned to Hinata himself. He stared at Kageyama, the hood of his light pink jacket pulled over his hair. He wore a faded set of jeans—it was very pastel, very Hinata. His style really was his own. Kageyama had never forgotten that.

Hinata had told Kageyama about all the men on their first date out, two weeks ago. All the past boyfriends, one-night stands, week-long flings. There had been so many. Too many. Hinata was spiraling, Kageyama could see that. Drowning in a flood of relationships as shallow as his toilet bowl, as empty as the bottles strewn around the dirtied throne in his bedroom. There had been drugs and drink and smoke, burns and cuts and hisses of pain, tears in the late hours of the night, glass smashed and hurled across the apartment, words too cruel and fists too heavy to bear. All had come from the past lovers and haters and boyfriends and men that Kageyama could practically see lining up outside the door and down the hall. Hinata had wanted everything to be out in the open right from the start when he met with Kageyama; he’d wanted Kageyama to know what kind of person he was. The kind of person he’d become.

Hinata blinked, his eyes steady on Kageyama. He shifted his hands in his pockets, then made for the door, indicating with a tilt of his head for Kageyama to follow.

“ _Hinata_.”

It slipped out. Kageyama tried biting it back into his mouth, but the word was too heavy and gravity too strong. It dragged the name to the ground between them. Hinata stared it for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown. He scowled at the floor. “Forget what happened in there,” he muttered. His voice was soft. “It has nothing to do with you. I just thought—”

“ _Fuck_ that,” Kageyama whispered. “That’s _bullshit_ , Hinata.” His voice rose. “Nothing to do with me? It has everything to do with me! What the hell was that? Why did you— Why do you think all I want from you is— _Fuck_.”

Hinata smiled at the floor. He still refused to look up at Kageyama.

“Because that’s what they always want.”

Kageyama’s eyes widened.

He couldn’t speak. For what seemed like hours, years, eons, he stood there, rooted in place, staring down at the smaller boy in front of him. Hinata twisted his fingers in the hem of his hoodie, his feet shuffling softly on the linoleum. He waited, eyes cast down to the ground.

Kageyama finally breathed, finally mustered his mind to start working again, and he bowed his head. His eyes were burning. Tears never made sense. How could water burn?

“What happened to you?”

Hinata stiffened.

Kageyama looked up. His face was wet, red. “What’s happened to you since high school, Hinata?”

Hinata finally looked up, and his eyes were cold, but not like winter—harsh and brutal. Cold like the vacuum of space. Empty. Alone.

“You left,” Hinata said. He shrugged. That’s all there was to it.

Kageyama drew in a sharp breath. “You can’t blame me for that,” he whispered. “I went to school. I wanted to keep in touch with you in college, but—”

“I know, I became a fuck-up, right?” Hinata’s eyes were dim. His mouth curved in a sad smile, aimed at the rug. He shook his head slowly. “I became the fuck-up while you went on to keep playing without me, to keep moving on without me.”

“ _I waited for you_ ,” Kageyama snarled. His fists curled at his side. His body was rigid. “I waited for you to pick a school, to pick a career, to pick a path…to pick _me_. But you floated through life for too long, Shoyou.” His voice cracked when he said Hinata’s name, and Hinata’s eyes widened slightly at hearing it. “I thought,” Kageyama went on, his voice wavering. “I thought if I could find you again, look you up and meet you after…after last time we saw each other… I thought we could start over. I _missed you_ , all that time.”

Hinata laughed, startling Kageyama. It was hollow and sharp, and it rang like corroded steel through the apartment, hard and cold. Hinata gestured to his small flat, the closed bedroom door, the dark kitchen, the dirty rug. “So did I,” he whispered.

The bottles and dirty sheets, the needles in cupboards, the bandages and rags, the smell of sex and sweat and the city sidewalk. The close walls, the low head-space, the toilet that didn’t work and the faucets that only knew cold water. The kitchen that was always dark, the lone lightbulb in the center of the ceiling, the dim shadow on the rug below. The chill that crept up the spine as your body first entered the room, the room full of bodies, full of old bodies and old memories and old skeletons swept into the closet. The empty room where two bodies stood, near enough to touch, far away enough not to. Two bodies warped and torn from each other, when they’d once stood on mountains, leaped worlds. Now stood small in the center of an apartment, staring at each other like they were meeting for the first time.

“I waited for you too, Tobio,” Hinata whispered. “I missed you too. And it fucked me up. You fucked me up.”

Kageyama swallowed the lump in his throat, but it still burned in the back of his mouth. “What do we do, then?” he asked, just as quietly. “To fix this.”

“Nothing,” Hinata said softly. He turned to the door. “We don’t do anything, Kageyama.”

And they didn’t.

They left the apartment, closing the door behind them. On the street outside the building, they parted ways. One body fled to the city, the other crawled through the night, and they both howled at the trees for their wisdom at never letting another living thing love them.

The stars above, if they’d bothered to watch the two, wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to start by saying I'm really, sorry for...that.
> 
> If you got hurt reading it, imagine what I went through writing it :')
> 
> Okay, some updates! I'm officially on spring break!! :D Which means... *cue drumroll* ...I can get back to work on 'the king, his prince, and the sun'!!!! *cue trumpets and general fanfare* I'm just as excited to post the new stuff as you are to read it! Or maybe you're not excited! Who knows... The hits counter says it's getting a lot of views, but the kudos and comment counter are strangely skewed in relation to the hits... Do people like it? Do they hate it? Do they not care? It's a fucking mystery ;')
> 
> Also, another update: there may be some artwork done by for-others.tumblr.com for that shitpost karasuno/nekoma sleepover story that somehow become my second biggest hit. like. guys. it was a joke. it was a giant meme. it was literally an excuse to make one, really shitty, /dick joke/
> 
> So naturally, I'm so proud of all of you for liking it as much as I did :''')) I feel like a proud momma bird watching her chicklets fly off for the first time only to crash into a big wall known as The Shit-Post Hour lmaoooo.
> 
> Thanks for everyone's support as always! I wouldn't enjoy posting anything here if it weren't for you guys :) Your comments and kudos and every little bit of encouragement are really important and very dear to me. From seeing familiar names pop up in the comments or kudos, to seeing the number of bookmarks and subscriptions go up, it's all so amazingly encouraging! I don't write for numbers or stats. I write because I want to be better. I want to be the best I can be at what I enjoy. Seeing those numbers go up makes me feel like I'm doing an okay job, because it can be hard knowing what to do next or how to approach a story. It can be hard figuring out how to be better at what you enjoy. And sometimes that means writing some really shitty joke of a story, but writing it well enough to make people laugh. And sometimes it means writing something really fucking sad, almost hopeless, like this one. Because you know what? Writing lets us face those emotions head on, tackle them to the ground, and say 'Fuck you, Sorrow and Sadness. I'm not afraid of you anymore.' We can do that! We can do that with writing and with art. And now I'm rambling but it's late on a Friday night as I'm writing the notes for this story, even though it won't be posted until tomorrow afternoon, and I have too many emotions that I want to convey to all of you who support me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, this is getting too long so I'll end it here.
> 
> (actually here, because I need to say love you one more time. LOVE YOU. okay, we're good now.)
> 
> <3


End file.
